Rowdy By Rachael Jones
Stampede every second weekend in June
Bulls and broncs, over eight seconds to shine.
It’s not the same, although we train all year
Rowdy and I prefer to stay on ground
Racing time as we reach for each barrel.
Little boys and girls sit on the fence
Wanting to feel the soil beneath their boots;
Crowds jump to their feet as we pass the stands.
Dirt flies as if it was thrown by a shovel,
Earth forced in the opposite direction.
Together we race as one unit combined
His hind legs hidden beneath the overcast,
Dust clouds prevent returning to that path.
Our hearts thundering like a stormy night.
Luminous light peering through the filth and hair,
Hair so coarse and dark, it helps block the sun.
His coat darkening with sweat as it pools.
Muscles tense and tight, contracting. Running.
His gait increasing, I sink deeper in
Sitting high leaning forward in the saddle;
Knees in, ankles out, ready to drive and kick.
Hands high and steady, calm in the intense moment.
Rounding the corner, turning on a dime,
I focus on each barrel as they come
Our last lap to take in this arena,
Seconds stand between us and the buckle.
Every stride and run is just to escape
Not trying to escape any danger, instead
The darkness as the sun sets for the day.
The Elgin Stampede comes to a close.
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